


The Most Awesome Girl in the Known Universe

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Genderqueer, Love, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-12
Updated: 2009-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gilbert Weillschmidt, who sometimes goes by the name Prussia, pursues the most awesome girl in the known universe--who sometimes goes by the name Austria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Awesome Girl in the Known Universe

They say a body only comes to The Anarchy for two reasons.

A tight mass of twisting streets and canals, some of which double back on themselves or dead end and all of which are unmarked, The Anarchy is almost impossible for a newcomer to navigate. Accordingly, Gilbert has hired a highly-recommended local guide. He glances in at the man sitting behind the steering wheel, but the man is so focused on the glow of his personal vidscreen that he doesn't appear to notice.

Shifting his weight as he leans against the vehicle, Gilbert returns his gaze to the shadows and artificial light playing over the hard surfaces of pavement and inscrutable buildings, lingering on the soft figures moving through the chiaroscuro streetscape.

Business has taken Gilbert to every quadrant of the globe, but it's not business that brings him here now: he was advised to take a short personal leave to reconsider the promotion he just declined. He agreed to the vacation, but he's not going to rethink anything here; a body does not come to The Anarchy to think. As his direct superior said when Gilbert told her where he was planning to go, a body comes to The Anarchy for two reasons: to fuck or to die.

Gilbert Weillschmidt can't say for certain about anyone else he's seen since his arrival, but he has every intention of living for a very long time yet.

He wonders if the same is true for the working boys and girls he's been observing for the past twenty minutes. He hopes so. Holding an unlit cigarette between his lips, he continues to watch the street with its bodies of all shapes, sizes, colors and, he imagines, predilections. A cornucopia of sex on display, samples for sale. Something for everyone.

Then he sees the girls for him: a trio has appeared and arranged themselves off the mouth of an alleyway. The tallest one, leaning against the brick-face building, has the darkest hair, framing her face with superb simplicity, shorter ends curving in to kiss her cheeks, longer ones reaching down and flipping up just before touching her shoulders, one wild lick reaching up and curling out. Beside her stands a smaller girl, barely pubescent, Gilbert guesses. A long, thick tendril wanders down the side of her head, out over her shoulder, curliqueing at the end. The one standing in front has the lightest hair, twisted into a carefully messy bun, stray tendrils dripping free down the back of her neck, a flower perched behind her ear—yellow, Gilbert thinks, though it's hard to say in this light.

The night air is warm, not quite sticky, so the scarves Tall-Dark-&-Beautiful and Flower have draped around their necks must be for fashion rather than comfort. Gilbert respects this choice; he is inclined to don his chainmail duster jacket in all climates and all seasons and to wear his protective eye gear even at night, as he is now. While the former may be a matter of pride and taste, the latter is necessary. His employer offered to give him an implant instead, but Gilbert does not trust any person or technology enough to let them open up his skull, let alone physically put something in his brain, so he's stuck with the data goggles. At least their function is disguised by a stylish, retro-chic design.

As he crosses the street to his chosen girls, he reconsiders his assumption that Curlique is working: in denim and a loose-fitting black tee-shirt, she doesn't seem to be dressed for it the way the other girls are, with their short skirts and high heeled boots, Beautiful in a corset, Flower wearing a man's vest with no shirt beneath nor jacket over it. On the other hand, though, Curlique's casual, average-kid clothes might be a look designed to appeal to a certain demographic of trick. Pocketing the cigarette, Gilbert glances at Curlique again as he steps over the curb onto the sidewalk, and now he's not sure whether Curlique is a pre-pubescent girl or a young boy. He supposes it doesn't much matter.

"Good evening, ladies," he says in the global patois. They don't respond right away and he wonders if they can understand his accent. They haven't turned from him, though, so he keeps going: "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Maybe," Beautiful says. She doesn't push off from the wall as he expects, but slouches artfully against it. Teeth showing as she flashes a smile, she says, "Could be we've been waiting for you."

There's a pleasant tightening in his belly and Gilbert smiles. "That would be a fancy trick." He pushes the credit note in his hand through his fingers so that the "100" shows clearly. "I'm here from out of town." He might be stating the ridiculously obvious, though Gilbert supposes even the locals must satisfy their needs here sometimes. At any rate, no trace of derision shows on any of their faces. Consummate professionals, he notes with admiration.

Beautiful steps forward now; even without her heels, she'd be at least his height. She touches him above the wrist, slides down along his hand, draws the money from his fingers and passes it behind her back to Flower, who puts it somewhere on her person that Gilbert doesn't see. "Well then, come on." Eyes twinkling, Beautiful takes him by the hand, tugging to urge him forward as she takes a backward step toward the mouth of the alley. "There's something over here you'll probably be interested in."

Gilbert lets her take him half-way down the alley, still in view of the others. They're both looking at him, until Flower touches Curlique's shoulder and Curlique turns around to watch the street.

"Hey," his girl says, a hand on his face to shift him fully towards her. She doesn't say any more, but smiles when Gilbert returns the "hey."

Then the wall is against his back, and as she goes to her knees, he understands that the thigh-high boots aren't pure fashion but have their practical points as well, protecting her from the cold and filth of the ground back here. She undoes his zip, takes out his cock, and licks along the underside from base to tip. When she reaches his cockhead, she arcs her neck so her forehead brushes his belly, and then she swallows him down.

As she sucks, Gilbert grabs a handful of her hair. She doesn't ease up, but he does, relaxing his grip and sliding his fingers through her hair to cup the back of her head; then he goes down a little more, pushing at the scarf just enough to reveal a barcode tattoo along with the unmistakable brand of the Hapsburg State Whorehouse. As badly as he wants to use the scanner in his thumb ring on the tattoo, he doesn't trust himself to process the data in the throes of orgasm. He'd rather tilt her face so he can see her eyes, the ones that twinkled at him on the street—but when he does it, she closes them. Closing his own eyes, he hardly feels the thud as he throws his head back against the wall, fingers tightening in her hair, holding her still as he comes down her throat.

"Sorry," he says, still short of breath as he offers a hand to help her to her feet. "I should've asked permission to do that."

She smiles. "If it had only been fifty, you'd have had to ask."

Her tongue sweeps out for a trail of his come dripping from her mouth. She misses some of it and Gilbert starts to wipe it with his thumb, then thinks better of it. "How much for a kiss?" he asks, hand lingering on her face.

She doesn't brush him off and she doesn't look away from him. After a moment, she says, "A kiss is included." He leans in, licks the stray strand of come, touches his mouth to hers, resting his tongue against her lips even when she parts for him. He meant to use this as an opportunity to scan her, but as she sighs into his mouth and coaxes him into hers, his hand forgets to find her nape, content to splay along her jaw.

When the kiss breaks, he asks, "What else do I get for a hundred?"

Her laughter is low, surprisingly soft. Already starting back up the alley, she pauses and looks over her shoulder. "The next hundred, you mean?"

She has long legs and a smooth stride, and they're on the street again by the time Gilbert catches up. "What's your name?" he asks.

"You can call me Austria."

"Pretty," he says, meaning more than her name.

She smiles in response, though he can't tell whether she caught the entendre. "This is Hungary," she says, gesturing to Flower. Resting a hand on Curlique's shoulder, she continues, "And this is Italia."

Gilbert shakes Italia's hand with a "how do you do" and bends to kiss Hungary's knuckles; as he straightens up, he catches the end of an amused glance the girls are exchanging with each other. "My name is Prussia." He has other names, of course, but this one is as real as any other and is his favorite besides. Gilbert grins. He knows who and what he is, and he knows exactly who and what he wants. "How much for the night, for all of you?"

There's no trace of amusement in the look Austria and Hungary exchange this time. "I'm the only one, normally, who does overnights," Hungary says.

Gilbert doesn't miss her use of the qualifier "normally." Taking it for an opening, he reaches into his inner coat pocket, then fans the credit notes he's drawn out. The amount of money he's holding makes even him a little sick.

They look long enough to be counting. Another glance carries more silent communication between Austria and Hungary before Hungary says, "You stop as soon as one of us says to. Austria keeps on whatever clothes she wants and you don't touch her unless she says it's okay. You can touch me without asking." Her grin is full of practicality if not joy. "We'll touch each other and you however you want. And Italia—"

"I don't want anything from Italia." Even though there are no rules and hence no age of consent in The Anarchy, Gilbert is an old-fashioned man in a few respects, and this is one of them. "She can stay in the anteroom, somewhere you won't have to worry about her." They look doubtful, so he says, "I don't know what you're used to, but I don't make time with young girls."

It takes a moment for them to parse his meaning. Then Hungary says, "All right."

Gilbert waits, but Hungary doesn't say any more. He glances at Italia, who doesn't meet his eyes. He smiles, anyhow, and thinks she sees it from the corner of her eye; these girls, he thinks, don't miss much. Settling his gaze on Hungary, he says, "You have some pretty strict terms, for girls in a place famous for its lawlessness."

"Yes," she agrees simply. If he wanted to go to an officially sanctioned whorehouse, her unflinching gaze tells him silently, he'd already be there.

He's about to ask what he needs to do to prove his acceptance of their conditions, when Austria says, "Do you still want us?"

"I still want you," he promises.

It's enough for her; for all of them, because Italia smiles and Hungary says, "Are you staying at the Axis?" When he confirms it, she nods. "I know where that is. You can dismiss your driver. It's faster on foot anyhow, what with all the one-ways."

"You don't trust me."

She meets his amused look evenly. "Should I?"

"I hope you will, by the end of our night together."

Hungary snorts but there's no detectable malice in it. Gilbert raps on the guide's window and, handing the man pay for the full night as contracted, tells him further services will not be required. All too happy with the money for nothing, the guide peels off.

Gilbert turns to his girls. "Shall we?"

"We shall," Hungary says. Taking Italia by the hand, she turns on heel and sets off, revealing a knife strapped to her thigh when her skirt twirls up. Since she's gone to the trouble of showing him that one, Gilbert suspects she has at least one other. Her knife-side hand remains free as Austria falls into step with them.

After a moment, Gilbert catches up.

 

The only thing that distinguishes the Axis Hotel externally from the other buildings on this street are the nine letters above the front entrance spelling out its name. It's one of the only marked structures in The Anarchy, either a concession to the well-to-do tourists who favor it or a precaution against having them wander into other buildings.

Gilbert steps to the side as he opens the door. When the girls look at him, he gestures them inside.

"I don't know who you're trying to impress with your fancy airs," Hungary says as she passes him, "but you don't have to worry about us. We're already as impressed as can be." She pats her vest pocket, bulging with the wad of credits he handed over.

"This is how I treat everyone."

She holds his gaze for a moment. He thinks there's a hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth, but she doesn't give in to it.

They take the elevator to the top floor. When the doors open, Hungary says, "Wait." Pressing the hold button, she turns to Austria. "Pat him down."

As Gilbert presses his palms to the wall and spreads his legs, Austria begins to frisk him. She's good at it, quick but thorough, strong and gentle as she searches his person. Even through his clothing, he can feel the heat from her hands and he has to concentrate on not getting aroused by her touch, even though it's a perfunctory one.

To distract himself, he looks over his shoulder at Hungary. "What if I have weapons in my room?"

Fingertips on the handle of her thigh-knife, she says, "Don't worry, we'll check." She watches his face as Austria continues the pat-down. "This doesn't bother you."

"No. I think it's smart. And I like smart girls."

Again there's the almost-twitch of a smile. "I like your goggles," she says.

"You can try them on, if you want."

There's a tug as some of his hair gets caught by the strap when Austria slips it over his head. "Sorry," she says, her breath a warm tease against his ear.

He looks back over his shoulder. "It didn't hurt." He wants to kiss her again, badly, but he's sure the "no touching rule" applies to all body parts, not just his hands.

Instead, he switches his gaze to Hungary, who is turning this way and that as she looks through the lenses in their deactivated state. "Nice," she finally says, taking them off to hand them back.

Goggles in place, Gilbert opens the room door and once more allows the girls to enter first. While Hungary and Austria conduct their search, Gilbert sits with Italia on the sofa in the anteroom. He shows Italia how to use the vidscreen remote and tells her she can watch anything she wants from the pay-per-view menu.

"Thank you, Prussia!" she says, and immediately begins clicking through channels when he hands over the remote. She's sitting on the hem of her shirt so the collar rides down in back when she leans forward, and he sees that she has a mark, too, though it's not from the Hapsburg State Whorehouse; in fact, it's not one he's ever seen before.

"Italia, would you like a tomato?"

She pauses in her channel-surfing to look over at him. "Fresh?"

"Plucked it off the vine myself."

"Really?" she asks. When he nods, pure delight widens her smile. "Yes, please!"

Grinning at her enthusiasm, he ruffles her hair—and lets his thumb slip down to scan her tattoo. He gets a flash of scrambled data before the goggles' readout goes black, then comes back online with the message, _***ENCRYPTED***_.

It's a disappointment but, Gilbert reminds himself, a small matter as he isn't here for work. He goes to his small bag for the promised tomato. It's not work but personal curiosity that makes him look anew at Italia as she bites into it as if it's a sweet fruit. The doubts that started on the street about her biological sex get stronger the longer he looks: it's as if Italia is shifting between male and female, shimmering lightlessly.

Resting his chin in his hand, he discretely activates a series of filters in the goggles. The data stream confirms two things: Italia is a biological being, and the shimmer is no trick of his eyes. It's there in Italia's skin and beneath it, barely perceptible contractions and expansions, as if her molecules are rearranging themselves—or being rearranged. Nanobots, he realizes. He's not sure, of course, but he can't think of any other explanation. There's been work in this field, though he didn't think it had advanced this far out of pure theory.

"We don't have a vidscreen."

Startled out of his fascination, Gilbert turns and sees Austria leaning in the doorway that connects to the bedroom. She smiles at him. "Italia loves vidtech. This is a serious treat."

"Then I'm glad I insisted on the room with the biggest screen." He joins her in the doorway. There are no weapons to find, but he says anyhow, "Everything all right?"

She nods. "Hungary's taking a shower."

Her scarf has twisted and tangled during the searching. "Please, let me," he says, reaching for it. Her hand comes up but since she doesn't say no, he straightens it for her, starting with where it rests against the back of her neck. The scan he manages is quick, but it confirms some things he knew, including her former status as a certified Hapsburg whore; and at least one thing he didn't—that she was assigned to reconditioning training. The data is incomplete, so presumably they didn't bother to update her file with the failed reconditioning before they put her on the street. Or maybe she escaped before they could.

It doesn't matter either way, not to him. She's here now, and so is he.

"Thank you," she says. Gilbert doesn't remember if the flush in her cheeks was there when she walked in. Tilting her head and tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear, she steps away from him. They tumble free again as she turns to Italia. "Have you taken your meds?"

"I forgot." Italia shifts to retrieve a small container from her front pocket. Popping the cap, she taps out a couple of pills and swallows them dry. "Do you want some of the tomato Prussia gave me?"

Austria smiles. "No, thank you."

Holding the piece of fruit out to him, Italia says, "Prussia?" When he declines, she returns his grin and re-rivets her attention on the vidscreen.

"You two seem to have hit it off," Austria says.

"Italia's a good kid." Gilbert turns to Austria. "But what I want is a real woman."

He holds her gaze for as long as he can before she looks away, saying she's going to go see how Hungary is doing.

Gilbert sits with Italia again, and soon becomes aware that she is watching him as well, first out of the corner of her eye, then turning fully to meet his gaze. There's something else, too: Italia isn't shifting randomly now, but reading his responses to each shift, adjusting in return. Italia has reached a sort of stability now, still shimmering, neither male nor female and yet, somehow, both.

"Nicely done, Italia," he says.

"Thank you, Prussia," she—or he—or it smiles.

Gilbert doesn't like applying "it" to people; the word is used too often to strip away humanity. Italia is an "it" of a different kind, though. A glorious, magnificent "it." But Gilbert can hardly refer to Italia as "The Glorious It."

"Italia," he says, "which gender do you prefer for yourself?"

If the question comes as a surprise, Italia doesn't let it show. "I like both."

"I like both, too," he says, and Italia shimmers in response.

After a moment of smiling at each other, Gilbert tries a different approach: "How do you want me to think of you?"

"However you like," Italia says.

"When you think about Hungary, you don't always use her name in your head, right?"

"Right."

"You think of her as 'she' or 'her'?"

"Yes," Italia confirms.

"And if you were to think of me, I would be 'he' or 'him.'"

"Pronouns," Italia says with a nod.

"That's right." Gilbert smiles to cover his surprise at her grammatical knowledge. "Now, when I think of you, I don't know whether to think 'she' or 'he.' We don't have a neutral or inclusive pronoun."

"Persian does," Italia says.

Gilbert is caught so off-guard he can't respond immediately. He doesn't know anything about Persian, but Italia seems certain and he believes it's true. He wonders how Italia knows that—but since he's not here investigating Italia, he says instead, "Sadly, we don't have one in usage in the global patois." It _is_ sad; it's worse than that, really. It's shameful and it should change, either with the introduction of genderless pronouns from Persian or another discrete language, or perhaps with a new word invented specifically for the global. When he gets back, he'll put in a suggestion; hopefully someone up the chain will like it well enough to take it on.

For now, though, he doesn't have an accurate pronoun for Italia. "There's 'it,'" he reflects aloud, "but that's not for people."

"I don't mind 'it,'" Italia says. "Oh—but you do, don't you?"

With Italia watching him so seriously, Gilbert tries to come up with a satisfactory solution. He sighs at the concession he's about to make. "When I first saw you, I thought you were a girl."

The shift is barely perceptible; he doesn't see it happen, he only sees the girl before him. "That's fine, Prussia." Then she shimmer-shifts back to an androgynous state as she takes another bite of tomato and resumes watching the vidscreen.

"Does it hurt?"

She doesn't bother to glance over. "No," she says, patting her front pocket.

"So your meds are for pain?"

This time she does look. "One of them is. The other is—I don't know what, exactly. But it's harder for me to be myself without it."

"Yourself," Gilbert repeats. "Like you are now?"

With a grin and a nod of confirmation, Italia once more focuses on the bright imagery of the vidscreen. Gilbert nods as well: perhaps the meds function as a conduit for the nanobots. This isn't his area of expertise, but it's certainly intriguing.

As glorious and marvelous and intriguing as Italia is, though, she's not the one he came for. He's more than ready when Austria says, "Hey."

She's standing in the doorway to the bedroom again, dressed in the corset and skirt, though the boots are gone and the scarf has been replaced by a brocade collar that matches her corset. His gaze lingers along the lines of her body and tangles in her hair, slick from the shower, clinging to her skin. Sensing his focus, she brings her fingers come up to toy with the ends; he wishes that touch were his. "Do you want me to dry it?"

He shakes his head. "Wet looks good on you."

She breaks their mutual gaze to give in to a smile, lowering her lashes as her lips curve up. She might be faking the modesty but he doesn't care; it looks even better on her than moisture does.

A sudden laugh reminds him of Italia's presence, and he drags his eyes away from Austria. Gilbert tugs the curlique. "Will you be all right, Italia?"

"Mm," she confirms around the bite of tomato she's chewing on as she continues to giggle at the character falling down a mountain on the vidscreen.

Austria takes his hand and leads him to the bedroom. As they cross the threshold, she leaves him to join Hungary, wrapped in a towel, lounging on the king-size bed. There's a pink flower tucked behind her ear along with a few strands of hair, the rest blown dry and left loose.

Gilbert closes the door behind him and, coat still on, starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"Do you want us to come over there and help?" The towel slips slant-wise as Hungary sits up, exposing more skin, the hint of a nipple.

He untucks his shirt to get the last couple of buttons. "I like you where you are."

Hungary rests back on her elbows. The towel falls below the generous swell of her breast, as she shifts her weight to one side, freeing a hand to caress Austria's hair as they watch him.

When he finishes undressing, he goes over, removing the goggles and his ring.

"Half-expected you to wear them in bed," Hungary says, nodding at the goggles he has deposited on the night stand next to her unholstered knife.

He quirks her a half-smile as he climbs over her to join them; once he's settled between them, Hungary leans in to lick the last traces of his grin. He opens, relinquishing control of the kiss to her and her clever, twirling tongue.

Then he rolls onto his other side for Austria; her tongue is unhurried, thorough.

When he comes out of the kiss, fingers still resting on her neck, Gilbert leans back to study her face. His gaze lingers down to the lips he has just kissed—and it's only because he's so close and they're in good light that he sees the scar. It starts at the corner of her mouth, a faint and precise line extending across her cheek. There's a second line on the other side of her mouth, and with horror Gilbert wonders if they're part of the same continuous scar cutting across her mouth. It's expert: whoever did this knew what he was doing when he cut her up and when he sewed her back together. Revulsion washes through him as he recalls the dataflash: _***Assigned to Reconditioning.***_ Cut open for something she said, or something she wouldn't.

He takes his hand away so she won't feel the tremor. When she looks at him in silent question, he manages a smile. "I want you to kiss Hungary now. Will you let me watch the two of you together?"

He turns to Hungary for her consent as well, then switches places with her and watches Austria unwrap the towel, watches them kissing and touching for a while. When Hungary turns to ask if there's anything specific he wants to see, he says, "Something awesome. Something pretty." They smile, and Austria fingers Hungary to orgasm, and if it's not exactly what Gilbert had in mind, it's more than enough to make him lean over and lick Hungary's come from Austria's fingers.

They draw him in with them, kissing and touching him now, still kissing and touching each other. Hungary, as promised, lets him touch her all over. When he asks permission to touch the back of Austria's knee, she says, "Yes." He feels the pleasant weight of Hungary's breasts against his back as she nips and licks his nape, both of the girls toying with his cock.

His fingers slide up Austria's thigh toward her ass, and she reaches back to slap his hand lightly before returning it to her knee. He breaks their kiss to murmur an apology against her mouth and is forgiven with a stroke of his cock, her fist closing over the head before opening and sliding down to meet Hungary's hand wrapped around the base.

When Gilbert tries to reach between Austria's legs, she catches him at the wrist. "What am I going to do with you?" Although she's smiling, there's a serious undertone to her voice, a threatening glimmer in her eye. She flicks her thumb across his cockhead a couple of times, eliciting choked moans from him. "Do you want me to stop doing this?"

"Please, Austria," he says. "Please let me have your cock."

The mattress dips beneath him and he feels the loss of warmth at his back as Hungary rolls away; dimly, he hears the scratch of metal on wood as she grabs the knife off the night stand.

He doesn't take his eyes or hands off of Austria, though he stops moving. "Please, Austria." There's so much more he wants to say: how he wants to touch her, look at her, how beautiful she is right now; how beautiful she is, full-stop. But he only says once more, "Please."

Caught up in his gaze, Austria is still looking at him. He sees the trembling, the hard swallow. Then she says, "Okay."

She looks away when he pushes her skirt up around her waist; she doesn't look when he gets up, coaxes her legs over the edge of the bed, and kneels between them. Pushing her skirt up, he leans in, kissing and nuzzling and mouthing Austria through her panties until she starts to relax. He slips his fingers beneath the silken material, finds the edge of the adhesive she's used to bind down her cock, and removes it as gently as he can; if it hurts, she doesn't let him know. He eases up, anyhow: butterfly kisses her, the silk of her panties warm and damp against his lips. He pets her and kisses her more, until he feels the engorged heat of her arousal.

Gilbert coaxes up her hips so he can pull off the panties. Eyes closed, he kisses her cockhead. When he looks up at her, he finds her hand over her face. "Hey, now, don't hide. You're so pretty, Austria. You're the most awesome girl here." She's the most awesome girl in the world, maybe, or at least the most awesome one he's ever seen, but he doesn't think she'd be impressed by the cliché, no matter how heartfelt it is.

Then Hungary, arm around Austria to support her, says, "He's right, Austria. You're beautiful."

Austria's lashes are wet when she drops her hand from her face.

Gilbert sits back on his heels. "I'll stop." He tries to catch her gaze, but she won't look at him. "Do you want me to stop?"

Still looking down and off, she shakes her head. "But. You said in there," she gestures in the direction of the anteroom, "that you wanted a real woman."

"You, Austria." He waits for her to look at him. "I meant you."

Their gazes lock together. Gilbert doesn't know how he can be breathing so heavily when time has stopped.

Then Austria stands, reaches behind her, to unhook her skirt, and lets it fall to the floor.

Gilbert kneels up before her. He wants to wraps his arms around her hips and swallow her cock, to feel the head in his throat. He looks up and finds her eyes. "Let me touch you." When she nods her permission, he cradles her cock, rubs his cheek along it, turns to kiss it.

Her hands in his hair call his attention upwards. He stands with her and kisses her again, her mouth, her eyelids, her jaw line, the soft skin behind her ear. "Let me look at you."

She undoes the brocade collar herself; he mouths her adam's apple as Hungary helps her with the corset. When Austria's naked, she lies down on the bed. He sees the scar on her belly, ugly and unprofessional; he wonders if it was after this that Hungary started to carry the knife.

Gilbert stretches out beside her. "Let me kiss you," he says, and she opens her mouth to him. He moves his hand up from her belly; his fingers search for and find the edges of the prosthetic breast cups. They feel as real as they looked in the corset. They're expensive enough to feel real to him, but he wants her to feel his touch for real. "Austria," he starts.

"Yes." Her breath is thick, sweet and heavy. "Anywhere you want. Touch me, please."

"Here," Hungary says, her fingers covering his. When their eyes meet, he sees gratitude in hers. "I'll do this." He nods his thanks.

As soon as Hungary has done the first one, Gilbert bends to take Austria's nipple in his mouth, lavishing attention with tongue and teeth. Her sighs turn to soft moans and he feels her shift; looking down her body, he sees her hand hovering without touching her cock.

The ache to give her pleasure weighs heavily in his balls, and he reaches for hers, rolling them in his palm, massaging until she gasps and arches; her cockhead slaps against her belly, leaving a slick smear. "Oh, sweet girl," he moans, "let me fuck you." He looks at her face, flushed, eyes closed, tongue darting from between parted lips, wetting them. "I want you." He wants to make her understand that he wants the girl inside the boy's body as badly as he wants this body; that he wants the girl even more. All he can manage with his next breath is her name: "Austria."

"Yes," she murmurs. Opening her eyes, she whispers, "Yes. Please." She says please again; before it can turn into begging, he moves to take her mouth in a kiss.

When the kiss ends, Hungary says, "Hey."

Looking over, Gilbert sees her holding up a condom, brow arched in question. Shaking his head, he holds his arm so she can see his inoculation mark.

She grins and tosses him the lube instead. "I'm going to go check on Italia."

Gilbert doesn't miss the way Austria's hand tightens around Hungary's. "You're welcome to stay, if you'd like," he tells Hungary. When she hesitates, he changes it to, "Please stay," smiling and leaning over to kiss her lips.

As he slicks himself up, Gilbert watches the girls whispering and kissing. When Austria, flushed and smiling, looks at him, she's so lovely he stops to memorize the moment.

Austria's mouth curves open more. "Do you need Hungary to help you with that?" Her gaze flicks to his stilled hand on his cock.

"No." Gilbert grins. Then he raises an eyebrow and turns to Hungary. "Unless she wants to?"

Reclining in place, Hungary grins back. "I'm good here, big man."

Flashing the girls another smile, Gilbert lowers himself between Austria's spread legs and kisses the pucker of her hole before slicking and stretching her with his fingers. When he feels her go beyond ready, he moves up and touches his cockhead to her. He brings one of her feet up to his shoulder and kisses her ankle while continuing to rub against her. The contractions of her hole flicker against his cockhead; he inhales, and pushes in.

Slowly, he keeps pushing until he's fully inside her. Her foot slips from his shoulder; both her legs wrap around his waist. Savoring the heat and tightness of her around him, he looks into her eyes, lets her look into him.

He holds in the mutual gaze until she says his name and her thighs tighten around him, her hips rolling to tell him what she wants. And he gives it to her, sliding out to push in again, thrusting slowly and then faster, varying the rhythm until he finds the one she wants, long, slow strokes, fucking her thoroughly. Her cock is slapping against her so he lowers himself to cover her, trapping her thrumming cock between them and fucking it with his belly until, tightening and arching, she moans his name with desperate softness and his skin goes slick with her come.

Gilbert keeps moving inside her, losing himself in the heat of her body, the heat of her gaze; it's her gaze as much as anything that finally turns him inside-out into orgasm.

Even then he stays inside her for a few sweet moments as he goes soft, caressing her face, kissing her smile. When he slips out and relaxes beside her, a whimper catches his attention.

Flushed and squirming, Hungary grins. "That was." She doesn't finish the sentence but breathes another helpless smile.

"Hungary..." Austria's voice trails off as she looks at her friend.

"I don't know," Hungary says. "I just somehow didn't think I should be getting myself off during that. It was. I don't know," she says again.

Rolling onto her stomach, Austria kisses Hungary between her thighs. Hungary arches in response, spreading her legs more and burying her fingers in Austria's hair. Gilbert moves to join them, flicking his tongue across Hungary's clit on the way to Austria's lips, eliciting a whimper from both girls. One of Hungary's hands moves to Gilbert's head to keep him down there; together, he and Austria lick Hungary to climax.

They fuck for hours more, in twosomes and all three together; at one point, Gilbert even puts on a solo show to wolf-whistles and flushed laughter.

It is awesome.

The only rough moment comes when Gilbert asks for one of them to fuck him. They both go quiet and, although Austria doesn't move, Gilbert feels her withdrawing—until he goes to his bags and brings out the toys they must have found during their search of his room, but forgotten until this moment. Hungary gives him a wicked grin when he pulls out the strap-on, then fulfills the promise of that smile as she pegs him on his back, his knees over her shoulders, his head fallen over the edge of the bed. When something smooth touches his lips, he opens his eyes and, upside-down, sees Austria holding one of the dildos. A moan opens his smile enough for her to feed him the silicone cock. He closes his eyes as his tongue wraps around it; the heat of her gaze tells him she's still watching.

He goes down on each of them again before they're all spent and satiated enough for sleep. While Hungary goes to get Italia, Gilbert helps Austria turn the bedclothes.

"Did you have a good time?" Italia asks, rubbing her eyes as she comes in.

Gilbert's "yes" is echoed by Austria's.

"Good." Italia smiles and kisses Austria's cheek. Then she leans over Austria to kiss Gilbert on the cheek, too. "Thank you," she says before going around to the side of the bed where Hungary has tucked up, and settling in with her.

Some time later, Gilbert wakes up and realizes that while Hungary and Italia are still in bed with him, Austria is not. Propping up, he sees her by the window, wrapped in the complimentary hotel robe. He's careful not to disturb the others as he gets out of bed.

When he comes up behind her, Austria turns her head just enough to acknowledge that she knows Gilbert is there, but not enough to look at him. He slips his arms around her. "Can't sleep?"

"I don't want to sleep through the best night of my life."

His hand finds its way through the opening in the robe to rest against her belly, thumb caressing in lazy circles. She turns and finds his mouth with her own, her tongue mimicking the languid motions of his thumb.

"Come with me," he whispers when they part. Taking Austria into the bathroom, he stands them in front of the mirror the way they had been at the window. Their reflections here are clearer, full-bodied, full-colored: he likes the complementary contrast of her dark locks with his white hair, loves the way the red of his vanity lenses brings out flashes of the same color in her blue ones, turning her eyes violet. He holds her close; his hand grazes over her cock, feeling the beginnings of arousal he hoped for. Kissing her, he reaches under the robe to encourage her erection.

When he unties the robe, she grips his wrist with both hands. "No."

"Yes." He moves his free hand to her face, cups her chin, and directs her gaze at the mirror. "Look. Tell me what you see."

"No. Please." Her words strangle. She lets go of his wrist to put a hand to her mouth; her voice filters through the cracks between her fingers, coming out a rough-edged whisper, "Please don't do this." A shaky breath escapes her. "Not this."

Too late, Gilbert realizes this must have been part of the reconditioning: forced to face the body she lives in, to recognize and accept it as reality. He almost stops—but there's a different reality he wants her to look at, needs for her to see.

Now that she's not trying to stop him physically, he disrobes her. "It's okay." She's shaking in his arms. "It's okay," he says again. "I'll tell you what I see." He catches her gaze in the mirror. "I see curves." He skims his hands over Austria's body, the movement suggesting curvature. "I see softness." He moves one hand up to lift the hair from the back of her neck, pressing his lips to her nape. "I see fullness." Brushing a thumb across her lips, trailing down her throat, her body. "I see a beautiful girl. The most awesome girl in the room."

She starts to protest his words, and he half-turns her to face him. "Can you believe me?" He searches her eyes. "Do you trust me?" He turns her back around, holding her in his gaze in the mirror.

At last he lets her look away. She doesn't move at first; then she takes his hand and touches it to her cock. He strokes slowly for a while, palming her sac with his other hand, fingertips reaching back to rub her perineum; when he feels the texture of her trembling change, he murmurs, "Let me inside you again." His hand leaves her cock to trace her lips; her tongue flicks out to caress the tips, wrapping around the finger he offers her. When she has him wet, he reaches down between them, pressing that fingertip against her hole. "I love being inside you."

Her words are so soft, he almost doesn't catch them: "Love it, too."

With a groan, he pushes his saliva-slick finger inside her. It's not enough for either of them, and when she says, "Please," he reaches for the tube of Axis lube on the sink counter, grateful for the establishment's foresight.

As they fuck this time, he notices in their reflection that her eyes are closed. He doesn't ask her to open them: if Austria needs to close her eyes to believe, then as long as she does believe, that's all that matters—for now, at least; the rest, he hopes, will come later.

He keeps stroking her after his own orgasm. "Come for me, Austria," he says when he knows she's close. "Can you come for me?"

And she does, spilling out over his hand; spilling out over her own.

After her breathing has calmed, Gilbert lets Austria turn from the mirror. At first there are no words, just touches, nuzzles, light kisses. Then Gilbert says, "I like tall girls because I don't get a crick in my neck bending to kiss them."

Austria smiles and says, "You like XY girls, don't you?" Her gaze shies off by the end of the sentence, but the smile is still on her lips.

A gusted chuckle escapes him. "Yeah," he says, cupping her face, letting his fingers drift down to curl under her chin so she can't look away again, his gaze steady and serious even as his eyes are smiling, "I do." He knows her instinct is to look away and Gilbert doesn't want her to have to fight herself too much, certainly not over something as unnecessary as this, so he says, "Come here," and pulls her closer, cupping the back of her head as her chin drops to rest on his shoulder. When her arms go around him, Gilbert returns the embrace.

Their bodies are flush together, Austria making no move to shift or hide her cock. She starts to say something, but doesn't get further than, "I," before falling silent again.

"You didn't know it could be like this, did you?" Gilbert says.

There's a gorgeous peacefulness in her responsive sigh.

"Come out on the balcony with me," he says. "I want a smoke." They pass through the bedroom where Hungary and Italia are still sleeping. From his coat pocket Gilbert retrieves his lighter, which really is nothing more than what it appears to be, and the pack of cigarettes he got from a vending machine at the airport.

The exhale of his smoke disappears into the night. Leaning against the railing, he looks up at what stars he can see. He hears the scrape of metal as Austria drags one of the chairs out from the table. He looks over his shoulder at her; draped in the chair, she smiles back. It feels so fantastic to be naked under the stars with her that Gilbert finally allows himself to think consciously of the reason he came to The Anarchy, and to speak it aloud: "Let me take you away from here."

Her throaty laugh is as warm as the night air. "I should have known you were a knight in shining armor when I saw you in that coat."

"I can get you a safe, legal sex-change."

Shifting forward, she looks at him wordlessly.

"I love you," he says. "I've loved you from the first moment I saw you." It's a lot to say and maybe too much to hear—but at least she's still listening; at least she looks like she wants to believe him. "I've been planning. Hoping for this."

Settling back in the chair again, she smiles. "You've been planning all night?" It's the closest she's come to laughing at him.

"For a year," he says. "Since I first saw you, as I said."

"You didn't say it was a year ago." Suspicion clouds her narrowed gaze and keeps her voice steady from the tremors that threaten the edges. Her fingers tighten on the arms of the chair, her body coiled to spring.

Back against the railing, Gilbert keeps his hands where she can see them. "It was fourteen months ago, in Vienna."

Her frozen stare burns more than the untended cigarette ash falling onto his skin. Gilbert wants to go his knees, but he's afraid any movement will spook her. "I'm not from the Whorehouse," he tells her. "I don't work for any government." His voice is soothing, but it's been trained to be this way regardless of the ratio of truth to lies in his words; he's been trained so well that he doesn't know what to do to show her these words are entirely true.

"What." She stops, swallows. "Why? Why me?" She searches his face, searches her own memories. "I don't remember being with you before."

"No," he confirms. "We rode a metro car together. You smelled like earth and grass after a rain. There was no chemical aftertaste in my throat like I get from most perfumes, so I thought you must be expensive, to smell like that. When I turned to look at you, I saw the wet and the dirt, and I realized it was real. I looked at you, and you were real." She smells like sex and sweat now; still beautifully real. "You were with Hungary," he adds. "She had longer hair then."

"I remember that night," Austria says slowly. "But I don't remember you."

"No," he agrees, "you wouldn't."

When she stands, he thinks that if she goes inside to wake Hungary and Italia, he won't stop her. He won't let Hungary knife him, but he'll let them all go.

She comes over and leans against the rail beside him. Eyes on his face, she draws the cigarette from his fingers and takes the last drag before flicking it out into the night. "You didn't talk to us."

"I didn't know I was in love with you until I couldn't forget you."

The laughter comes from the shallow recesses of her mouth, which quirks up on one side. "So once you knew you were in love, you set out to track me down?"

"I looked for you." He opens himself to her contemplative eyes. "I didn't know for sure it was love until tonight."

Their gazes entwine and hold, and hold.

"Prussia," she sighs, her expression softening. "This is just obsession."

The sadness she can't quite hide twists in his heart. He knows what he feels, but he won't push it on her. "Maybe." He offers a smile. "Come with me, anyhow. If it doesn't prove to be love, at least you can walk away from me in the body you want."

She looks off and shakes her head, but when she says his name this time, there's a fullness in her tone. When she looks back, he tastes the sincerity of her smile as she touches her mouth to his.

"I can't leave Hungary and Italia," she says.

"I would never ask you to."

"You're prepared to take all of us?" she asks. When he nods, she says, "It might not be as easy as you think, Prussia. Hungary and me, we're wanted." She doesn't offer details and there might be more to it, but that answers the question of abandonment versus escape from the Hapsburg State Whorehouse.

"I can do it."

"Even if you can," Austria says, "Italia is—kind of special." Gilbert doesn't say anything about what an understatement that is; he's not sure Austria herself knows. She goes on, "One of the reasons he's in The Anarchy is because he can get the meds he needs here."

The pronoun choice surprises Gilbert so that he doesn't respond at first. With Austria waiting, he recovers himself. "I believe I know someone who can help Italia."

Curiosity mixes with the scrutiny in Austria's gaze. "You know what Italia is?"

"I have an idea."

Straightening, she takes a step to stand directly before him. "Promise me that you won't do anything to harm Italia, and you won't let anyone else do anything, either. Promise your protection and care."

He takes her hand to let her feel the truth of his words in his touch. "I promise."

Her hand closes tightly around his. Then with a smile, she lets go. She takes another cigarette out of the pack, lights it for him, sticks it in his mouth. "Give me a few moments to talk to them."

"All right." He smiles and exhales around the cigarette.

At the sliding door, she pauses to look back at him. "I don't believe in love at first sight, you know."

He grins. "Then it's a good thing I'm the one who saw you that night."

She laughs.

Inside, she doesn't draw the blinds. He doesn't watch, though; instead, he turns to rest his elbows on the balcony railing, stargazing the visible constellations as he smokes.

He's on a second cigarette and still looking at the stars when he hears the door slide open behind him. Austria and Hungary step out onto the balcony.

"You want to go today?" Hungary asks.

Gilbert grinds out the cigarette in the ashtray. "As soon as I get the arrangements settled. There's an eleven o'clock flight I'm sure we can make."

She nods. "We have some things to take care of, too. We'll meet you at the airport. Italia's still asleep..."

"You can leave her with me."

Hungary smiles. "I was hoping you'd say that. Thanks, Prussia."

"Yes," Austria says, "thank you." She steps closer and kisses him, open-mouthed, a sweet hint of tongue. When she steps back, he leans in and kisses her again; she laughs against his mouth, yields until she's kissing him with her whole body, leaving him breathless when she turns to go.

 

Gilbert checks his watch again: it's half-past ten, four minutes later than the last time he looked. He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat won't go down; if anything, it threatens to come up.

He looks at Italia, who is gazing out the observation window. She's seemed worried since he explained things to her when she woke up, and now he realizes that she's known all along; he skips the obvious and says instead, "Do you know how to find them?"

Italia shakes her head. "Not anymore."

Gilbert stares out at The Anarchy. "Do you want to help me look?" Gilbert asks.

Italia doesn't say anything, doesn't even turn from the window to look at him, but her answer is in the squeeze she gives his hand.

The final boarding call for their flight is announced.

As they're walking down the jet bridge, Gilbert says, "Italia, do you like your tattoo?"

She reaches back to touch it. "No."

"Then let's see about removing it when we get home, shall we?"

"Okay."

On the plane, he lets her have the window seat. She watches the sky through take-off, and keeps looking into the blue once they've leveled off.

Gilbert keeps looking at Italia. She—or he is about the same age as Gilbert's little brother; he bets Italia and Ludwig are going to get along like gangbusters.

"Hey," he says, "what's that Persian pronoun you told me about?"

" _U_." Italia turns from the window and gives him a smile. It's not the most awesome one he's ever seen, but it's enough to make Gilbert smile, too.


End file.
